Asuncion

Jumping on an westbound red-eye Nuestra Señora bus from CdE para recoger a Tiffany was a whole bunch of things, but it also seemed like the only thing to do. I had been comforted that Tiffany's first trip into Paraguay would be with a good friend (la Nina) who had been living in South America for the past year. But, as things go, the Andean pass a Mendoza had a snow storm, forcing the aforementioned sitch. Up until the last minute we weighed the pros of me staying in Ciudad del Este to continue whatever it was I was doing... 

(probably drinking tereré )

to the pros of seeing each other as soon as possible and, you know, the national capital and all. The latter one won out, por supuesto.

Asunción's "tourist train," revived after much consternation, is apparently again defunct.

Paraguay has many quirks, but this route between its two biggest cities is largely free of them. I arrived in a somnolent, Sunday Asunción; agreed bleary-eyed to the first offer of a taxi, but felt potent in my Spanish and bus-setter status as I was ferried across the suburbs to the airport. When I arrived, the previous day's arrivals were still on the screen, so I took advantage of the cellular companies much-touted free wi-fi, the airport's one bank of padded seats, and a little bit of tereré and settled in to wait for Tiffany while the airport woke up. 

We tested out the camera Tiffany had brought when we got to our hotel

We soon were walking though the ghostlike Sunday streets in search of food. Although Tiffany had her doubts, my choice was clear, the regular reunion point for author John Gimlette during his time in Asunción: Lido Bar. He mused historical one day while sitting under the sidewalk umbrellas in his book At the Tomb of the Inflatable Pig,

It had occurred to me, whilst we were sitting in The Lido, that there was another figure on the Paraguayan landscape. He was everywhere. He was clustered at every crossroads. He was at the airport and on the bridge that led to Brazil. He nuzzled into his clones, making his bubble-gum pink rubber body squeak obscenely: the inflatable pig. He'd come from overseas and the citizens had received him, joylessly and yet, it seemed with fervour. 

Tiffany was freshly reading the book and exclaimed excitedly that the tomb of Francisco Solano Lopez (and several other significant leaders) was right across the street. We took out our chanchito (the only thing I had bought so far in the sprawling mall of CdE) and celebrated with a fotosesh. 

Nuestra chancita enfrente de la tomba de los "heroes"

Chanchito y Lopez Jr.

We're obviously not a fan of this asshat. Lopez Jr. was probably the worst thing to ever happen to Paraguay. But it felt like we had come full circle being able to view his tomb, as At the Tomb of the Inflatable Pig (given to me by the aforementioned Nina, por casualidad). The catastrophic destruction and loss of life Paraguay suffered under his reign can still be felt palpably today. More on that later.

"Ahora podemos decir que hemos comido y aprechado de Lido Bar."